They are toying with me....

I am writing this blog only because DH has forbidden me to bring up this subject at home anymore. I have no idea why he is so tired of it....I only called him four or five times about it today, accosted him with the latest when he walked in the door, and then spent the entire car ride to the "Y" regaling him with more of my anger. He put the kabosh on it on the way home (the treadmill did NOT make me feel better, by the way...that nonsense about endorphins is just that--nonsense. Instead, I watched LOST on TV and plotted in my mind the different ways I would like to send MY TRASH COMPANY TO THE ISLAND. Forever. Ben would know how to deal with them.)

Well, all my faithful readers know that I previously called them liars, and DH made me retract that statement, star the company name and try not to get blamed because 1,000,000 people read my blog and might take it the wrong way.

SO, for the two of you who actually do read, and probably won't take it the wrong way...an update:

On Friday, the trash was not picked up. I'm getting to have a sixth sense about trash day. My sixth sense tells me there is an 80/20 chance it won't get picked up. Or maybe it is more like knowing the actual statistics since mid-December rather than ESP. Anyway, we had a little rain. Somehow, the 12-ton trash truck could not cross the dam to our house because there was an inch or two of water splashing over the side. (My husband drove to work in his Toyota Camry across the same low water crossing that morning with no problem.) But, OK, after I called and they told me the horror story of the "flooded road", I was kind of nice. They said, "We'll be back on Monday." Of course, they might have called ME earlier to tell me, "Hey we are afraid of the puddle in front of your house and didn't manage to get your trash", instead of making me even more the "crazy lady on that street" because of listening to my dog bark all day to be let out so that he could hurry up and eat the trash at the gate, scatter trash all over the road and then come inside to throw it up in the living room. Yes, a call would have been appreciated. We would have brought the trash back to the garage and been calm.

But they didn't. And when I called them, they lied again.

On Monday, we actually forgot to put the trash out. I remembered at 10 a.m., but I'm getting smarter now, and I called them to ask if they were still coming out here. "Oh, yes, ma'am" was the answer. They always act so surprised when I call, as if they have never missed our pick-up day---when in fact, there must be call logs all over that company with my name and "screaming insane lady wants her trash picked up now" scribbled in the margin.

SO, I had the kids run the trash up to the gate. Whew. We made it.

By 2 p.m., I knew they weren't coming. I called. They weren't. BUT, the little man on the line happily told me they would be back "on Tuesday".

OK, now I'm starting to think there is some glee to be had by them when they picture us taking the trash up to our gate DAILY at this point. Perhaps there is a webcam that I don't know about and we actually are on a reality show--"The stupid things customers do when companies LIE to them". But, anyway, DH hauled it up there in the wee hours today.

At noon, when it was still there, I called. I was told, and I quote, "They are in the neighborhood and will be there soon."

LIARS, LIARS, LIARS.

This reminds me of the time we were dealing with a junk yard about a headlight for my husband's 1987 VW. (Yes, he hit a deer. Of course.) The man on the phone said to me, "I am holding the part in my hand and I will mail it to you today". It never came, and when I called back, he said, "I am holding the part in my hand and will mail it to you today". You know the rest of the story. Perhaps this is an occupational hazard for those dealing with trash or junk?

Honestly, if on Friday, the customer service representative had told me, "We missed you due to weather but we'll be there next Friday"...I would have been miffed, but at least I would not have trekked up and down to our gate six times by this point. Tomorrow we aren't putting it out, but you and I both know the truck WILL probably come then.

Every customer service representative I have spoken with has wrung figurative hands with me, clicked teeth in solidarity and agreed that this is just a terrible situation. I have had the number and extensions of supervisors given to me. I even got the operations manager's (whatever that means) extension today....and left a very long message about not providing service that has been paid for three months in advance. NO one has ever called me back. I even emailed the website of the "largest waste operation in the U.S" which assured me they wanted to make me happy and just send a comment or complaint and it will be handled. They handled it exactly as they handle the trash. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

Starting March 5, I have hired a new "waste management" company. I can't wait. But what on earth will I write about?

On Blogging

I'm the Seinfeld of blogging. I write about nothing. It's funny sometimes and sometimes not, but it's life in the country, with kids and dogs and the occasional horrible trash service thrown in.

I actually think that the best blogs are about experiences, travel, living abroad...all the things that are NEVER boring, usually funny, often gripping. I don't write those blogs, but I follow some of them.

This is a good one...read it today!

And...that little recommendation made THIS blog of mine easy. I do love a post that takes up ten minutes of my time, but provides SUCH enjoyment!

To be fair....

DH is such a party-pooper. He made me take out the REAL name of the stinky ol' trash company (I'm joking about the mob connection, really....um, don't google that or anything), and he even would not let me REALLY call them liars, which, well, anyway, it was apparently only possible they were lying every time they told me they would call me back in an hour (and didn't) or email me back in two business days (and didn't), but I guess I can't refer to people as liars in my WORLD WIDE BLOG. I do hope my two readers (hey Mirren!) do realize that was written for laughs.

OK, on to the rest of the story....

They did pick up the trash.

They TOLD me (not lying, right?) that they would be there by noon. By noon, I had called three times to see if, in fact, they were still coming. They then said (not lying) that they would be there by 2:00. Next phone call? Not lying, they said they would be there by 4:00. During that phone call they made it clear that I would no longer be able to harass, um, call, them after 5:00. When the trash was still at the street by 5:00, I wrote my blog.

It was dark when we heard the truck. I had a sentry posted in the form of Sweet Girl who insists on playing outside in all kinds of weather wearing her new reindeer fuzzy jammies and wooly socks. She ran inside.

"Mom, the truck is coming".

At the exact same time, my phone rang. It was Perfect Daughter, on her way home from town.

"Mom, trash has been picked up along the main road."

We sprang into action. I sent Sweet Girl up to the gate to drag ONE of the 10 large bags almost into the street. Good luck telling me they didn't see my trash THIS time. I contemplated making a quick sign to point out our trash, but the poster board and paint were hard to find. Sweet Girl skipped back with alarming news.....

They passed us. At the exact same time I received another call from Perfect Daughter.

"Mom, for some reason, only the right side of the road is picked up".

Ah! They would get us ON THE WAY back. We're on the right on the way back. Surely, surely, they would stop. Even if it is a steep hill and they have ALWAYS gotten us on the way uphill. (That is, when they decided to actually pick up our trash.)

At this point, I offered Sweet Girl a dollar to stand out there and wave them down. Ok, a dollar and no dish duty that night.

For some reason, (perhaps the dark night, reindeer jammies and the fact that she is a little girl), she demurred. I asked Rowdy, who flat-out told me I was crazy. I thought about calling Perfect Daughter, but she is pretty articulate with the lawyering and all, so I let it go. I didn't want to hear her take on a mom who bribes her kids to stand in the cold and dark and wave down 25 ton trash trucks.

Instead, I lurked on the front porch. I waited and waited and waited. It was pretty cold so I went inside. Of course, the dogs (WHO HADN'T BEEN OUTSIDE ALL DAY) were also on high alert. I had pretty much assumed we had been forgotten again, when the truck actually did stop. It actually did pick up the bags. It actually was 7 o'clock. PM not AM, as they had told us last week.

So, they aren't liars. Not at all.

Trashed

I know it's not the usual holiday post, but trash DOES have a lot to do with the holidays. As in, we create a LOT of it. There are parties, there is baking, there are visiting BABIES, and certainly there is at least one 50 gallon sack of Christmas wrapping paper every year. And this year, trash became the overriding theme of my Christmas (well, not overriding the REAL theme...Jesus-- but certainly overriding the one of "peace on earth, good will toward men".)

I have no good will toward my trash collector.

A*****/******/R******* services, in a word--you stink at what you do.

City people have NO idea how miserable trash is to really deal with. You get twice-weekly pick-up. It's at a CURB. In a CONTAINER. Out here in the sticks, we are apparently lucky to get once-a-week service, and it is at the end of a quarter-mile long driveway, hauled out in bags on the kids' wagon. In the dark and in the cold. We can't put it out even a couple of hours before pick-up or some critter will shred the contents all over the country road. The critter in question is usually our Australian Shepherd.

Trash day at our house goes like this:

Me, nicely waking up the kids, "Good morning darlings. Please remember today is trash day and don't let Pip out".

Me, suddenly a bit louder as I hear scratching at the door, "WHO let Pip out? It's TRASH DAY".

Me, shrieking as I see foil and bits of leftover pizza scattered all over the yard, "WHICH one of you let the blasted dog out? Whoever it was gets to clean it all up".

Yeah.

So, for some reason, after ten years of relatively reliable service, A*****/****** seems to have forgotten that the herewegoagain family is a customer. They missed us two times in November. Now, I was somewhat understanding the first time, and they were somewhat helpful...they sent a truck back to get the trash. This still entailed much dog-watching for an entire day, but still, mistakes happen. The second time, I was less understanding, but they DID still send the truck back.

On December 21st, four days before Christmas, and two days after our huge Christmas party, they missed us again. This time, they did NOT send the truck back. In fact, I'm pretty sure they lied to me about the whole episode and anyway, by the end of the day, I was the crazy lady in small-town-Texas who wanted the CEO's home address.

We have had 10 fifty gallon contractor bags of trash in our garage for a over a week. This means that not only can we not let the dogs out on the property for the actual pick-up, we now have me shrieking at any and all to "shut the garage door". It's a veritable smorgasbord of yuck in there, and it is too much to be contained by our sophisticated system of Rubbermaid trash cans weighted down with old free weights from DH's college years. We can handle five (a normal week's worth), but 10 means that the odor from the garage has permeated my house during the most cinnamon-y scented of seasons. The mixture is not pleasant to us, but quite tantalizing to the dogs.

Last night, we braved the elements and took a chance that the freezing weather might keep most of the dogs and all of the raccoons away and DH put the trash out then. This way, if the truck showed up at 7 am (their claim for missing us last week...probable-LIARS THAT THEY ARE), our trash would be there. It is now after 5 pm, conveniently too late for me to make yet another call to yet another clueless service representative to ask if my trash will be picked up. I called them at 8 am, 10 am, 12 noon, 2 pm and 4. I did all of that and more (think, "threw tantrum 25 times") last week.

It just DOESN'T MATTER. They aren't coming. I will now have 20 bags to put out on...get this...January 8th (the soonest they will be back). I'm almost 100 percent sure they will say we "have too much" and not pick it up. That is, if they even come.

The really stinky part (sorry) of all this is that this is the one service in the WORLD that requires you (me) to pay three months in advance. I am now paid-up for non-service through February. I pay promptly but they still seem to pass by our ever-growing pile of trash bags on our non-congested, non-populated, non-even-leafy-in-the-winter-time country road.

I hate them.

I have left messages with "supervisors" whose voice mail assures me that they return all calls within one working day (nope). I have emailed R******* Services whose website exclaims that they are the happiest of all waste companies (and the largest) and will answer any emails within two business days (double nope). I am now SLAMMING them on my blog, which is read WORLD WIDE. Take that, you no-good garbage men.

And, yes, tomorrow I will load up the herewegoagain little station wagon with all that trash and go to the dump. I'm truly grateful for all the hand sanitizer and room deodorizers I received in my stocking. I'll be using them.

I know, I know

People who blog, even those with oh, let's count... one reader...really shouldn't leave people hanging when there is a biopsy result to be announced. It's fine, I'm fine, and I was just lazy. Well, not lazy, but sick. We have had the flu? cold? swine flu? pneumonia? allergies?--I don't know, but I want it to go AWAY.

I'm fairly sure I caught it from my non-HIPA nurses at the hospital. I went in healthy and came home sniffly. Someone probably sneezed right ON me during my non-anesthesia. THEY wear masks, but I notice no one offered me one. Anyway, it's been a looooooong holiday season. And Christmas is still 16 days away, but who's counting? And who really needs a Christmas tree anyway?

Of course, I am surprisingly able to keep the weight on during any and all illness. I'm telling you, it's a genetic trait that means MY DNA will still be around during the next Ice Age, famine, nuclear holocaust--you name it. The world will be starving, yet there will still be a few little chubby people running around righteously defending themselves with, "What? I haven't eaten ANYTHING!". They will be traced to a fatty in the Texas Hill Country who lived there around the 21st century, whose bones will be dug up out of the family dog cemetery because her husband REFUSES TO MOVE.

I feel like this is a gripey blog with no point to it.

Let me just recommend a movie. My best-friend-from-11th-grade recently moved close to me. We hadn't seen each other since we were 16 and wearing skinny jeans on skinny bodies. SHE can still wear them and look fabulous, while I have graduated (ha, see the pun?) to sweatpants and large tent-shirts. Anyway, we decided we would take the kids to a cheerily decorated mall on San Antonio's famous Riverwalk, see the festive lights and go to a Christmas movie.

What fun! It was but....well, the movie we chose to take mostly young children to was: "The Fantastic Mr. Fox".

It wasn't "The Polar Express", or "The Santa Clause 25", "ELF" or any of a dozen really Christmas-y movies. There was really no mention of Christmas, except when the animals were having some sort of surreal Christmas (holiday?) dinner way underground as they were dodging death by farmers.

BUT IT IS SOOOO FUNNY. I think the entire movie went over the heads of our 7-13 year-old crowd, but my bfff11thg and I laughed until we cried. I highly recommend it. You might not want your kids to see the bad guy lighting up his cigarette, or to hear "cuss" used very creatively in place of other words (all for the PG rating), or even to see small forest creatures being shot at, trapped, and drowned (everyone lives, no worries). I mean, this is a movie with a dog in it who suffers from "chronic rabies". Watching nattily attired Mr. Fox eat his breakfast waffle is worth the price of the movie.

Oh, it's based on a Roald Dahl story. "Nuff said.

Go and see it, SIOBHAN! (Shout-out to my faithful reader!)

Just two stitches!

Ok, so I had my minor surgery a few days ago. In a really weird and surreal fashion, I had to go to an 'ambulatory hospital', sign loads of papers, agree to general anesthesia and wear the blasted GOWN, for something that took 10 minutes and required 2 stitches. Huh?

Poor DH had to drive me to the hospital in the wee hours, but being the good wife that I am, I hurried him out of there as soon as I had signed all those "you might die" documents. They were so rigid on the HIPA rules that he had to have a sticker on his jacket to even be in the same room with me as they told me "you might die", and I had to sign OTHER papers saying they could discuss my dire post-surgical options over the phone with him. I felt pretty confident that I was in a very private and secure situation.

Until they wheeled me in.

Yeah, welcome to the "ward". For those who haven't enjoyed an ambulatory hospital, well, it's much like I imagine life to be like in, say, a MASH unit (sans the battlefield casualties), or an obstetric ward in 1940 (sans the single-sex thing). There were about 20 beds, all lined up with curtains sorta/kinda dividing them. Each bed had the patient's name/dr's name and procedure sharpied on a placard tacked to the foot of it. SO much for HIPA. There were men, women, children, chickens, pigs, dogs (well, ok, not really...) milling about. The men, women and children part was right. It just felt so WRONG to be putting on the GOWN with only a curtain which could be ripped open at any time separating me from Mr. Smith/Dr. Jones/Hernia in the next bed. It was even worse to be in the bed and watching the other patients as they watched me. The children were amusing...one little 4-year-old boy ran away from both parents, most nurses and his doctors until he was caught at the exit door. That was one kid who did NOT WANT the tubes in his ears (HIPA, anyone?). The woman across from me was probably thrilled to have her colonoscopy discussed in great and loud detail (HIPA! baby!), but I confess it did help to pass the time as I waited for my doctor to show up, discusss my FINGER LUMP loudly and wheel me into the operating room.

My anesthesiologist showed up first. She was at least 12, so that was very comforting. She told me that they were going to put me to sleep using general anesthesia (the kind that COULD KILL YOU). I told her I really did not understand why there was such a big deal over a lump that seriously, I had contemplated cutting out one evening by myself while I was in the kitchen washing the sharp knives? Heh, she laughed, and then said, "Well, that is understandable...if you don't want the general anesthesia, we will simply give you a local."

WOW, I felt so empowered.

She then added, "And a little something to help you relax".

SO empowered. Yes, that was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be relaxed, but awake. I wanted to chat with the surgeon, to make sure he was cutting on the right finger (which actually was sharpied also...with "yes" on it), and on the whole to be a part of the whole procedure. Goodness knows, when I had the melanoma cut out (37 stitches and total privacy), the doctor, his nurse and I discussed the MCAT, med school (his grades, of course) and all manner of things.

This is how the finger surgery went...since I was awake and empowered, but just "relaxed", I can tell you:

They wheeled me into the OR. She gave me something to "help me relax". I think her exact words were (I'm not kidding), "This is what Michael Jackson used.".

The NEXT THING I REMEMBER, was...recovery.

Hmmmmm.

Anyway, it's all good. The lump is gone and while no one has 100 percent assured me it isn't cancer, I really think it's likely something very embarassing like a "fluid-filled cyst" or a "wart" or "wow, gross." I'll know more next week.

Yesterday, I took off the bandages. All that for TWO STITCHES. It truly looks more minor than Sweet Girl's knees and elbows after each and every soccer game. I'm almost too embarrassed to wag my finger at family members to get out of dish duty.

Almost.....

Surgery....and underwear

Well, as it happens, I have a little minor surgery scheduled for tomorrow. My surgeon did remind me that "minor surgery is what happens to other people", so of course, I am in the throes of preparation. It's going to be on my FINGER, so who knows how long I will be prostrate in bed with pain-numbing drugs and sipping chicken soup? Heh. Time to clean house, make casseroles and update my will. Or not.

I do actually think it might interfere with typing, so I decided to shoot off a quick blog. At least there is some blog fodder to be found in surgery on fingers....

First of all, my hand surgeon is rock-star cute. Even down to the longish hair, sparkling grin and "loves to do extreme sports" hobby. So, when he came in to see my finger, I, of course, blushed and demurred like a 16-year-old. And forgot to ask him ANYTHING. Such as, "why am I having surgery", and "will I die from it"? Sheesh. Handsome doctors should be banned. They all need to be grandfatherly, grey-haired and bi-focaled. And that goes for the women too. We patients need to be able to concentrate.

Anyway, after he gave me the three-minutes-and-it-will -cost $200.00- check-up, his nurse came in and basically told me that it was actual surgery, entailing that use of anesthetics and a gown.

Shriek.

The anesthetics meant I would not be able to eat or drink anything from midnight tonight until post-surgery (at least 2 pm) tomorrow. Are you KIDDING??? I mean, I know I'm a big girl, and possibly I can manage a "light" breakfast and no lunch, but this is nothing. Nada. No ice chips. No jello. No water. No donuts. I'm sooo not happy about that.

The gown? Well, we all know what that means. I had to go underwear-shopping.

I don't know what it is about Target, but somehow I am always embarrassing myself in that store. Whether it is admiring the maternity clothes without realizing that they are, in actuality, NOT meant for me, or whether it is cutting myself on a price tag and needing "immediate help in the accessories area" (over a loudspeaker),I really am starting to think perhaps I need to shop elsewhere. Except, really, I do love Target. It's cheap. The stuff is cute. And there is almost always a Starbucks near the checkout.

ANYWAY, Perfect Daughter and I were in Target yesterday when I remembered that I needed, I desperately needed, I needed RIGHT NOW, to buy some new underwear for tomorrow. She looked at me quizzically. "Why do you need new underwear for finger surgery?", she asked. She is so obviously a neophyte when it comes to all things doctor-appointment-related. I have been scarred since the time I went to my primary care doctor for a sore throat and he decided to feel my calves for "clots"...the same mid-winter calves that hadn't felt a razor since late-August. So, now I go prepared. Showered, shaved and newly-under-garmented. You just never know.

The problem was...Target's selection for "big girls" had undies with little butterflies and flowers on them. Nope. I was looking for somber colors, and sensible styles. We looked and looked and looked. Finally Perfect Daughter held up a package. It seemed perfect. BUT, I was just unsure about the size. It's not like you can try them on, after all.

I decided to call home and have DH check my undies drawer and read the size of a current pair to me. Great idea, right? Well, imagine having this hushed, one-sided conversation in Target (honestly, people were leaving the area in droves...starting with Perfect Daughter who decided that in fact, I WAS crazy and in fact, she needed to go and look at kitchenware if I was going to insist on having this conversation).

I called.

"Hi honey"
"Um, can you do me a favor"
"Um, look in my undies drawer...the top one, and pull out a pair of panties for me" (this statement did make me lower my typically 'loud and carrying' voice...especially when the lady next to me looked up sharply and backed away a couple of inches...however, she was holding a really cute pair, by the way)
"What size is it?"
"NO, that is NOT right."
"I don't care, it's not a size", this said in a hiss.
"You are obviously looking in the wrong place."
"Because...women's underwear does not COME in 42 Long."


Yeah. I still don't know where he got that from. Of course, this is the man who used to somehow find clothes in a box in the back of the kids' closet that were going to the Goodwill to dress them for church if I wasn't around. The clothes on hangers were obviously not easy to find....

SO, anyway, we sorted out my right size, Perfect Daughter slunk back over to me, and I'm all set for tomorrow.

The best part about the surgery? NO DISH DUTY for Thanksgiving! And, really, it's awfully nice to have a whole new package of undies. Riches!